The footsteps echoed first. Fast. Wrong. Too light to be armored. Too smooth to be human.
Then the voices came.
"Sayaaa…"
"Little sister…"
"Don't run. You'll wake the whole palace…"
I froze outside Loma's chamber, halfway down the balcony, crouched beside a pillar, barefoot and pissed. I peeked back in.
Loma had sat up.
Something shifted in her expression. The fog of annoyance cracked just enough to let a sliver of oh shit in.
Then—knock knock knock.
No, not a knock. Scraping. Fingernails across wood. Followed by a click.
The door creaked open.
And there they were.
Three of the wives.
Number Four, Number Five, Number Eight… or what was left of them. Nightgowns torn. Eyes glowing red like fevered embers. Skin like wax. Lips parted in perfect polite smiles lined with fangs.
Loma made a sound like a kettle being strangled.
I burst through the window with a crash, knocked over the bronze brazier by the sill, and sparks exploded across the floor.
"MOVE!" I screamed.
She didn't argue.
I grabbed her by the wrist and yanked.
We bolted down the corridor, silk and bare feet slapping against marble, smoke trailing behind us. The corridor blurred, torches flickering, shadows chasing our heels.
Behind us:
"Saaaaya…"
"*We only want to talk…"
Loma screamed.
I didn't. I was too busy dragging her around the corner and kicking over a statue for good measure.
"You believe me now?!"
"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!"
"They're dead. Or close enough. Welcome to the real honeymoon suite!"
And we ran.
We slammed into the palace kitchen like a pair of panicked raccoons breaking into a noble's pantry. Copper pots clanged. A stack of apples hit the floor. Some half-asleep cook screamed and bolted through the back door.
I didn't waste a breath.
Started tearing through baskets, jars, sacks, anything that looked remotely pungent.
Loma, breathless, hair wild, clutched a cleaver like it was going to help her against undead debutantes. "What are you doing?!"
"Looking for this!" I yelled, yanking open a spice drawer the size of a coffin.
I fished out a wrinkled, juicy garlic blob the size of a newborn's fist and tossed it at her.
She caught it, stared in horror. "You can't be serious."
"Oh I'm deadly serious," I growled, peeling open two cloves with my teeth like a madwoman.
Loma took a step back as I slathered garlic across my neck, my chest, under my arms, behind my knees.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
"Protection!" I snapped, rubbing it into my collarbones like perfume. "You got silk. I got culinary-based holy warding."
"You smell like a haunted sausage!"
"Better than smelling like dinner!"
She was still holding her garlic like it might explode.
"Rub it on!" I barked. "Everywhere. Neck. Groin. Vital zones. You think those brides of Nosferatu care about etiquette? They'll eat you like an overripe peach!"
Loma whimpered. "This can't actually work—"
"Wanna test that theory? Huh? Wanna go ask Wife Number Four if she prefers her virgins seasoned?"
I grabbed another handful, crushed it between my palms, and smeared it down my thighs like war paint.
"You are unhinged," Loma muttered, eyes wide, already dabbing the garlic under her chin.
"And you're welcome," I said. "If we live through this, I expect flowers."
Another scream echoed down the hall.
We both froze.
Then, in eerie harmony: "Saaaaya... Loooomaaa… We can smell you…*"
I grabbed a wooden spoon, handed Loma a frying pan, and hissed: "To the cellars. Now."
And we ran. Again. This time smelling like cursed spaghetti.